


Retrace

by DiscordantWords



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Guilt, John is a Mess, London, M/M, Missing Scene, Post-Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Pre-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Season/Series 04, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-10 20:22:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13509090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscordantWords/pseuds/DiscordantWords
Summary: John nearly takes a bullet. Then he takes a walk.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a continuation of a ficlet I wrote some time back, called [Not Unlike Clouds.](http://discordantwords.tumblr.com/post/165811057371/not-unlike-clouds) It's completely written, but I've been picking at it for a while (months!) and it's in need of some final edits. I'm hoping to put the second part up by tomorrow. 
> 
> I should note here that I have never been to London, but I _did_ use Google Maps to walk Sherlock and Eurus's route from The Lying Detective. Please forgive me any errors I've made, and feel free to point out anything particularly egregious.

*

As far as last thoughts went, on balance, John had been a lot happier with _Please God let me live_ than he was with _Wait, what?_

There was not much of an opportunity for regrets. The darkness rushed in and took him. 

*

He opened his eyes, cotton-mouthed and gasping on the floor. His limbs were leaden, slow to respond. 

Sherlock was crouched over him, warm palm cupping his cheek, the tips of his long fingers just barely brushing against the hair at his temple. His other hand was up against John's neck, a light pressure, measuring his pulse. 

John worked his jaw, struggled for words. He tipped his head to the side. His vision swam. 

The red rug was scratchy under his cheek. There was grit caught in the fibres, little bits of dirt and gravel. Sherlock could probably identify where it had all come from, could map his steps through London by the dirt he'd left behind. 

He blinked once, hard, struggled to focus. The room was very bright. There were clouds behind Sherlock, grey clouds, thick and rolling along the far wall.

No. Not rolling. Static. Patterned. Wallpaper. 

"Wind," he said, because it seemed important. His voice was slurred, his tongue heavy and sluggish in his mouth. "East wind." 

Sherlock's grip tightened on him. He slipped his hand from John's pulse point to brace against his back, helped him to sit up. The room righted itself with some reluctance. 

John shifted, groaning a little bit, frowning as his hand pressed up against something sharp. Glass. Broken glass all around, a jagged mosaic surrounding him on the floor, and the ugly red rug seeping out beneath him like a bloodstain. 

The chair was tipped on its side, one cool metal leg pressed against his right arm.

There was a breeze. The sound of birds, of light traffic. John turned his head, slowly, and looked at the sliding glass door. 

It had been shattered. Knocked half off of the frame. 

Well, that explained the glass on the floor. 

Sherlock still had not spoken. His eyes were quite wide. There were tiny cuts on his hands, thin rivulets of blood where the glass had bitten. He hadn't wiped it away. 

His hands were shaking. 

There was a pink line just over his left eyebrow, new skin, freshly healed. Barely noticeable. 

John had put that line there. So. He noticed it. 

The silence had grown heavy, strange. Sherlock's face was pinched in a way that John could not recall ever haven seen before. He was not wearing his coat, nor his suit jacket. He did not typically go out in just his shirtsleeves, even in warm weather. 

John craned his neck, found the coat and jacket on the ground, tossed aside. A hasty, careless pile. Not at all the way Sherlock normally treated his clothes. John stared. Sherlock's gloves were slumped lifelessly by the door. They were torn, dark and wet at the edges of the frayed leather. 

He looked again at Sherlock's hands, at the blood smeared on his knuckles.

"I'm not dead," John said, just to have something to say. "That's—surprising." His throat was dry, and his voice emerged graveled and hoarse. It seemed very loud in the close stillness that had enveloped them. 

Sherlock's right hand went back to his pulse point, smoothing along the skin at his neck. His fingers quested, stilled as they found their target. His eyes did not leave John's. He shook his head, once, slowly. 

"Sherlock," John said. "You're scaring me, a bit, now." 

Sherlock blinked. Paused. Blinked again. His grip tightened, released. Life crept back into his face, his eyelids fluttering. He drew a breath. 

"This was in your neck," Sherlock said. His voice was very quiet. He lifted something from the floor, pinched between his fingers. A dart. 

"She shot me," John said. She had been holding a gun. A real gun. Of that, he was certain.

Sherlock jerked his head in the direction of the toppled chair. John shifted, craned his neck. 

There were two singed holes in the chair back, the white leather curling outward. Someone _(Eurus)_ had taken a knife to it, had split the fabric in a jagged grin beneath the holes, a grotesque parody of the smiling face on the wall in 221B. Chair stuffing poked through, soft and gauzy, not unlike clouds. 

*

They left the police in charge of the scene, drove back to Baker Street in Mrs Hudson's incredible, improbable car. 

"Tomorrow," Sherlock had said, when Lestrade had approached John for a statement. "He's in shock." And then, after a pause: "Be sure to check the airing cupboard." 

John sank into the butter-soft leather seat and let his head fall back, shut his eyes. The engine rumbled, a pleasing, throaty sound.

He'd driven it, once. Just over a month ago. One last desperate mad dash through London, foot mashing the pedal to the floor, engine roaring. His heart had been in his throat, then, his focus narrowed to one goal. He'd not had time to savour the experience. 

He'd very nearly been too late. 

Sherlock held to the speed limit. He set both hands on the wheel, his gaze fixed straight ahead.

"Did you steal this?" John asked.

"Borrowed." 

He smiled, a tired half smile that he could not have stopped if he'd tried.

Sherlock did not smile back. He kept his scraped hands on the wheel, his eyes on the road.

It had been a long time since John had been in a car while Sherlock drove. He was a cautious driver, focused. It was the polar opposite of what anyone might have expected from him. 

The silence grew uncomfortable, stifling. John fidgeted, looking for something to do, something to say. He slipped his phone out of his pocket, frowned down at the screen. 

_59 missed calls._

It made him think of another mad dash through London streets, a different car, a different destination. A different outcome entirely. His daughter, red and screaming in his arms. His own shocked gasping laughter.

"I was slow to realize," Sherlock said. He was watching John out of the corner of his eye.

"You called," John said. He stared at his phone. His thoughts were sluggish, disconnected. "Fifty-nine times." 

"It occurred to me that something might—happen. To you." 

John brought his hand up, pinched the bridge of his nose.

Sherlock never called when he could text. He must have been driving, hitting redial. Over and over and over. Getting John's voicemail.

"I was slow to realize," Sherlock said again. "My memories from that night—I didn't trust them. I should have known that I didn't—that I didn't just make her up. She was real." 

"She was real. Yeah. She just wasn't who she said she was," John said.

Sherlock pursed his lips, tucked in his chin. 

He thought about chilled morgue air, the way Sherlock's expression had changed when Faith Smith had stepped into the room, her cane clicking against the tiles. 

Thought about what came after. 

John shut his eyes, turned his face away.

"She said you had chips," he said, speaking to the window glass. Thought of Sherlock, wild-eyed and high. _We had chips,_ he'd said. _I think she liked me._

"Yes," Sherlock said, after a moment. His voice was quiet. 

"You knew where to find me." 

"Every Friday afternoon, John. You've not varied in your routine. Not since—" 

"Right," he said, and he forced his eyes open, straightened up in his seat. Looked back over at Sherlock. Sherlock, who had come for him. Sherlock, who, it seemed, would always come for him. "She said she was your sister." 

Another press of his lips, an unhappy frown. A twitch of his shoulders. Fighting against some more overt reaction. 

John cleared his throat. "So you—?" He paused, looked down at his hands. The conversation he'd had with Mycroft in Baker Street felt surreal, distant. "Do you even _have_ a sister?" 

"Not as far as I know." 

"Okay." 

"Seems likely, though." 

John laughed, a sharp unhappy sound. "Does it really?" 

"When one looks at the evidence." 

"Right." 

Sherlock pulled onto Baker Street. Drove right up onto the pavement in front of the flat, heedless of honking horns and angry shouts. He glanced sideways at John again. "Should I be taking you to hospital?" 

"No," John said. He was sore and groggy. "I just want—" he stopped, looked down at his hands. He didn't know what he wanted. He couldn't really recall the last time he'd known for sure. 

Sherlock didn't speak. He seemed to be waiting for John to continue. 

John breathed out through his nose. Abandoned one train of thought for another. "I guessed, you know." 

"What?" 

"That there was another one of you. I thought it was a brother, but—" he shook his head. "Just. Something Mycroft said once. I asked him about it." 

He chanced a glance at Sherlock, who was looking at him as if he'd never seen him before in his life.

"You—" Sherlock said. He hesitated, seemed irritated at himself for faltering. "You never said." 

"Well—it—seemed a bit ridiculous at the time. But. Not so ridiculous now, I suppose." He shifted in his seat, looked out at the worn door to 221B, achingly familiar and welcoming. 

How many times now had he shut that door behind him, thinking it was the last? 

"No, not so ridiculous," Sherlock agreed, his voice soft. 

"He denied it, of course." 

"Well. Wouldn't make for much of a deeply buried secret if he went around admitting it to just anyone." Sherlock's tone was far too casual, almost bored.

John looked at him, at the tension in his shoulders, the careful blankness of his expression. At his hands, still clenched on the wheel, crisscrossed with thin lines of dried blood. 

"Your hands," John said. 

Sherlock looked down. Blinked. "Just scratches. It's fine." 

John shook his head, smiled tiredly. Inclined his head towards the door. "Come on." 

*

John hung his coat, stood staring as Sherlock knocked briskly on Mrs Hudson's door, thrust the car keys into her hand when she opened it. 

"Shouldn't leave these lying around," he said, his voice light and jaunty, far too cheerful. "Never know who might be tempted! Also you—may want to consider moving your car. Would _hate_ to see you get a parking ticket." 

John groaned, too weary to laugh and too heartsick to scold. He trudged up the stairs as Mrs Hudson slammed the door in Sherlock's face with an indignant huff. 

He felt worn, old. Exhausted. There was nothing exciting about the stiffness in his neck, the dried blood on Sherlock's hands. 

This was not a mystery he was eager to solve.

_He's making a funny face,_ she'd said. Her voice had been so flat, so detached. 

And oh, Christ, those texts he'd sent, all those late night flirtations. His little dalliance. His stomach clenched, sick with it, guilt and horror and something else just out of reach, an anger that he was just too tired to grasp for.

He hadn't recognized her. She'd been disguised, certainly, and it had been a _good_ disguise, but she was still—

She was still—

It sat in his gut, leaden, cold. He'd cheated on Mary—even if he hadn't done anything physical, he'd certainly _thought_ about it, entertained the idea, teased at it—with a woman whose face he couldn't even _recognize_. She'd been nothing, she'd been no one, just a pretty girl with nice hair and a shy smile, just someone to pay him some attention. She'd flattered him. It had been that easy. 

He hadn't even known her face. 

Just like that, he'd been ready to throw his life away.

Sherlock convulsing on an operating table hadn't done it. The unfamiliar, chilling expression on Mary's face as she'd hollowed out a coin with terrifying accuracy hadn't done it. 

And all it had taken was a smile and a compliment from a woman whose face he could barely remember. 

What did that say about him? 

He stood in the doorway to the flat, looked around at its cosy familiar chaos. His chair and Sherlock's, tucked by the fireplace. The sofa, the coffee table, the desk piled with papers. 

There was no staying away. He could never stay away. It didn't matter where he lay his head at night, what address he wrote on his official documents. Some part of him would always call this place home. 

He shouldn't. He knew that.

He should not feel welcomed here. He should not feel comfortable. 

He had nearly killed Sherlock. Over Mary. When he himself had turned his back on her for a woman he didn't know. A woman he didn't know _at all._

A woman he wouldn’t even recognize if she passed him on the street. Not even if he stared her in the face.

Not even if he sat across from her in a therapist's office.

"John." Sherlock's voice, behind him, very close. He'd come up the stairs, stopped just behind John in the doorway. 

He had been quiet. Or perhaps John's thoughts had simply been loud.

"Sher—" John said, and stopped. His voice caught in his throat, breath hitching. His face was hot. He put his hand up, rubbed at his cheeks. His fingertips came away wet. 

"Are you—?" Sherlock was worried, his voice had dropped, low and quiet and hesitant. He never seemed to know what to do with his worry, carried it in his stiff shoulders and halting motions, in his fluttering hands that never seemed to find a place to land. 

John turned around, breathing in harshly through his nose, forcing himself to regain some composure. He'd fallen apart in Sherlock's arms once over this. Now was not the time to do it again. 

"I want to look at your hands," he said. 

Sherlock stared at him, doubtless taking in his flushed face, his reddened eyes, drawing conclusions. He was slow to speak. "I told you, it's fine. Shallow scratches." 

But Sherlock did not resist as he reached out, gently grasped at his wrists. Turned his hands, examined them carefully. The palms were unharmed. A web of scratches unspooled across the thin delicate skin at the back of his hands, his knuckles scraped raw. The edges were livid with irritation, but the cuts themselves were, indeed, shallow. 

"The glass door was locked," Sherlock said. "I could have gone around the other side, but you were on the floor. It seemed—prudent. To gain access as quickly as possible. You weren't moving. The rug—" 

He did not finish his sentence. He swallowed, looked down, his Adam's apple bobbing.

John did not need him to say anything further. That odd little red rug, with its uneven, liquid edges. Him, little more than a limp form sprawled across it, colour bleeding out across the floor beneath him. 

The right shoulder of Sherlock's jacket was frayed, ripped. John could picture it, Sherlock, wrapping his hand up in his jacket, breaking the glass. Discarding the jacket and reaching his gloved hands through the shards to unlock the door, to push his way in. Swift, efficient movements. He'd torn the gloves, John recalled. Peeled them off, left them discarded on the floor, wet and dark with blood. 

The cuts were surprising. Sherlock usually took more care. 

He'd been hasty. Rushed. Not entirely in control.

The world's most observant man, failing to notice that the red smear on the ground wasn't liquid but fabric.

"Bit unlike you, yeah?" John joked weakly, still holding Sherlock's hands in his. "If it had been anyone else breaking in to have a look at a corpse on the floor, you'd have taken their head off for disturbing the evidence." 

Sherlock drew his hands back. There was something terrible and raw in his expression, a sort of wild hurt that caught John off guard. 

"No," John said, reaching out, tugging his hands back, looking away from the expression on Sherlock's face, not at all equipped to decipher it. "Come clean those cuts out." 

Sherlock allowed himself to be led into the kitchen, obediently put his hands under the tap. Lathered them with soap. John stood next to him, watched rust-coloured water circling the drain. 

"You weren't a corpse on the floor," Sherlock said. He seemed affronted.

"Thankfully not." 

"No," Sherlock said. He shifted, winced as the water began to run hot. Took his hands away. "I wouldn't investigate your murder, John." 

John shut off the tap, frowned. "Well, no, I suppose not. Lestrade would probably—there are rules about that sort of thing. Personal involvement. Officially, anyway." He huffed out a laugh, shook his head. "Not that you ever really do anything officially." 

Sherlock shut his eyes, shook his head. His movements were slow, restrained in the way they'd been ever since the Smith case, when he'd had to be mindful of his healing body. His bruises had faded, but he still moved carefully.

"John," he said. His voice was leaden. He kept his eyes closed. "You misunderstand. If you'd been murdered, there would be nothing that would stop me from finding the person responsible." 

"Well," John said, injecting a bit of forced lightness into his voice. "Good. Yeah." 

"They would not survive the encounter." 

John let his hands drop back to his sides. It was suddenly hard to breathe. "Oh," he said. 

He should have more to say, he knew. He should say something. 

The words would not come. They didn't speak like this to each other. Sherlock should have made a joke. He could have responded in kind. He did not know what to say. He focused on Sherlock's hands instead, patted them dry, inspected the clean skin. 

"Shallow, like you said. Lucky you were wearing your gloves. This shouldn't scar," he said. He bit the inside of his lip, looked away. Sherlock was already scarred. 

"Where is Rosie now, John?" Sherlock asked. 

John startled at the mention of his daughter. He stepped back, heart thudding wildly. "What time is it?"

"Just past three." 

"I've got a sitter for workdays. I'm expected to pick her up by four." 

Sherlock pursed his lips, tucked his chin. He appeared lost in thought. 

"Why?" 

Sherlock did not speak. 

"Sherlock." 

He lifted his head. His voice was very flat as he spoke. "I can't say with any certainty what might be about to happen. This woman—Eurus—my sister— _whoever_ she is. She—" 

John sagged. "Sherlock—" 

"She didn't harm you," he said. "She had ample opportunity, and she chose to drug you and leave you behind with a message. But she murdered someone in order to position herself close to you."

"You don't think that Rosie is safe." John spoke the words slowly, dull, numbed. 

"I think—" Sherlock's voice was sharp. He cut himself off, pressed his lips together in a thin line. When he spoke again, he was quieter. "I think that if you have any favours remaining, anyone you might call to keep her for the next few nights, you should do so. It may be best not to have her close. In case." 

John thought of Eurus with her contact lens, that one vivid blue eye, _Sherlock's_ eye, familiar yet not. Cold. Thought of the jagged smile cut into the chair leather beneath the bullet holes, the scratch of the red carpet beneath his cheek. The way he'd seized up and then gone boneless with shock, with fear, the blood roaring in his ears when she'd turned to face him. 

He had never behaved in such a way on the battlefield. He didn't _freeze up._

Except—he'd done quite a few things he could never have imagined himself doing, hadn't he? He'd proven, time and time again, that he wasn't the man he thought he was. That others thought he was. That he wanted to be.

"Perhaps it would be best if you left London for a while. Until this is resolved," Sherlock said. His voice had gone flat again. "Take your daughter. I don't know how far my sister's interest in you goes, but if you remove yourself from the situation, it's likely—" 

"No," John said. His throat was dry. He needed water. Water and sleep and—Christ, he didn't even know what else at this point. 

Sherlock stopped talking, blinked. Glanced over at him, a quick glance, furtive. "No?" 

"No, I—" John shook his head. "She's pretty clearly involved us both, Sherlock. I want to see this through."

_And I won't risk leaving you behind to deal with it yourself,_ he thought. Because Sherlock was right, he was always right, and John had been foolish and stupid and selfish to think it was better to go it alone. They were better together. The two of them against the rest of the world. 

Sherlock studied him. He tilted his head, a small, tentative nod. "Do you have someone you can call?" 

"Yes," John said. "Cath. From the surgery. She was friendly with Mary, she—" he stopped, cleared his throat. "She and her husband took Rosie for a while. Right after. While I—" he stopped again, looked helplessly at Sherlock. 

Sherlock's eyes had not left his. His face was somber, his eyes very soft. "Yes," he said. 

John turned away, no longer able to bear that gaze. He went to the sink, poured himself a glass of water, drank it down. He set the glass on the counter, slipped his phone out of his pocket. Spoke without turning back towards Sherlock. "I'll just be a minute." 

He went out into the hall, stood on the landing. Looked down the worn stairs at the door. Took a steadying breath. 

He called Cath. Told her he'd had a family emergency. He supposed, in a way, that it was true.

When he had finished making arrangements, he turned around. Sherlock was standing just in the doorway, watching him. 

"Jesus," John said. "You startled me." He put his phone in his pocket. 

"All right?" 

"Yes," he said. "Yeah. I'm—I'm going to owe a lot of favours. But yes." 

"Good," Sherlock did not move from where he stood. His gaze was intent on John's face. 

"What do we do now?" 

"I need to think." 

"Right," John said, and sighed. He glanced over Sherlock's shoulder, back into the flat.

"Come on," Sherlock said. He pushed away from the doorframe, started down the stairs. 

"Where are you—" John followed, of course he followed, but with some reluctance.

Sherlock paused by the door, stared at their coats, side by side on hooks. He closed his eyes. 

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock shook his head, reached for John's coat, passed it to him without a word. Pulled on his own. No scarf. His hands were bare, the skin pink and irritated.

They went out onto Baker Street together, into bright daylight. 

"Sherlock," John said, helpless, bewildered.

Sherlock turned left, set off into the crowd at a fast clip. John hurried to keep up.


	2. Chapter 2

*

They walked. 

Through the crowds on Baker Street, past Portman Square, turning, weaving. 

Sherlock did not speak, kept his hands in his pockets, his coat flapping behind him. His eyes were distant, his face blank. He had slowed his pace significantly from his initial dash out the door at Baker Street. He still walked with purpose. Some unspoken destination in mind.

The city was lively with late afternoon traffic. The sky was mostly clear overhead, sun shining. 

John watched Sherlock. Watched as his expression periodically shifted into focus, as his head swiveled to note the placement of CCTV cameras. 

"On my left, please," Sherlock said. 

John glanced up, startled. He had fallen behind. 

"What?"

"Here." Sherlock stopped walking, flapped his hand vaguely to the left of his body. A woman pushing a pram dodged his arm, frowned at them. 

"Oh-kay?" John said, stepped where Sherlock was indicating. 

"Thank you," Sherlock said. He resumed walking. 

"What—" John started, gave up. Sherlock was deep into his own head. 

Their route made no sense. He would have thought it entirely idle, simply a way for Sherlock to keep his legs moving while he worked through the mysteries in his mind, but he guided them through very deliberate turns, down streets heavy with foot traffic, past vendors and pubs and cafes and car parks and rows of parked motorbikes, occasionally stopping short and turning back the way they'd come. 

At some point, John had a carton of chips thrust into his hand. He followed Sherlock to a bench, sat down. Sherlock shut his eyes, put his fingertips against his temples, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees. He did not say a word. 

John's stomach rumbled. He ate the chips. They were hot and salty, and he licked his fingers. When he was done, Sherlock took the empty carton from him, binned it. They continued walking. 

Double decker buses rumbled by in Oxford Circus. They meandered past posh storefronts on Savile Row. 

Sherlock did not speak, his gaze sweeping over their surroundings as if seeing them for the first time. He seemed entirely unaware of John unless he fell out of step, and then would once more flap his arm in an impatient gesture, unsettled and unhappy until John returned to his left side. 

John did not much care for feeling like a dog called to heel. 

"Y'know, I don't much care for feeling like a dog called to heel," he said. Sherlock did not respond. He hadn't expected him to.

His legs had begun to ache. The sun shifted overhead. They continued their strange winding passage. 

They circled around Golden Square. A cyclist passed them, head down, pedaling into the wind. John turned to watch. He had enjoyed cycling to work, once. It had given him a bit of a thrill, a mild rush of adrenaline to carry him through boring days at the surgery.

They reached Piccadilly Circus, turned back. 

"Sherlock," John said. He rubbed at his forehead. 

Sherlock turned to look at him, stopping short on the pavement. Pedestrians behind them swerved to avoid running into his back. 

"I was very stupid, John," he said. His voice was breathless, on the cusp of some revelation. 

"All right," John said, frowning. He took Sherlock's arm, guided him out of the way. He leaned against a building, the stone cool through his coat sleeve. "What's going on? What is all of this?" 

"She stayed out of view. Walked at just the right angle to avoid cameras." He spoke very fast, his voice low, not really talking to John so much as to himself, out loud. "Of course, she couldn't avoid everything, not entirely. But she chose her moments. The bench, the chips—I'm not the most social person, John—" 

John scoffed in agreement, shifted against the wall where he leaned. 

"—but if I came across a woman eating chips alone on a bench in the middle of the night following a heavy rain—I would have spoken to her. Mycroft would not have found that surprising or noteworthy in any way. He would not have looked closely." 

"Chips," John said. He looked down at his hands, back up at Sherlock. "Oh. Oh! Is that where—she said you had chips. Eurus. Your sister. Was that—" 

"We walked," Sherlock said. "All night." 

"This route," John said, following now, finally. "Any particular reason?" 

Sherlock's lips quirked, some private amusement. "Yes." 

"All right," John said. He looked around at the crowded street, the crush of people, the slow-moving cars. Thought of Sherlock, off his tits on God only knew what mixture of illegal substances, roaming the whole of London in the wee hours of the morning, with a murderer and a liar by his side. Sherlock, who had been so disconnected from reality, so mistrustful of his own mind that he'd readily accepted the suggestion that he'd made her up entirely. 

He thought of the part he'd played in all of that, the way he'd thrown Sherlock to the floor instead of reaching out a helping hand, the way he'd kicked him and kicked him and kicked him to make sure he stayed down. 

He shut his eyes, breathed through his nose. "Did you go anywhere else?" 

"Yes," Sherlock said. 

"Weren't you tired?" He opened his eyes, looked at Sherlock. 

Sherlock looked back at him. His eyes were very pale in the daylight, almost colourless. He shrugged, did not answer. 

They walked. 

*

Hours later he found himself sat on a bench near the Jubilee Bridge, the sun setting, the last traces of daylight bleeding from the sky. 

Eurus, the gun, and the red rug in the therapist's office all felt very distant. Like it had happened to someone else.

Sherlock was next to him, still in his coat. He sat at the edge of the bench, staring out over the water. 

"Didn't you find it strange that she was willing to walk all this way?" John asked. 

"No," Sherlock said. "Of course not. I was high." 

John fell silent. The air cooled as the sun slipped below the horizon. His muscles felt rubbery, overtaxed. His back ached. 

"There's nothing for it," Sherlock said, finally. "I'll need to ask Mycroft. A direct approach, I think." 

John thought about the trapped expression that had flitted across Mycroft's face in 221B, amidst all of the evidence and chaos of Sherlock's brief foray into madness. 

"He might not answer you." 

"She must be older," Sherlock mused. "Something must have happened before I was born." 

"No," John said. "She's not. Older." 

Sherlock turned to face him. Frowned.

"Um," John said. He looked down at his hands. "You remember what I—what I—told you. A few weeks ago. About—um. Texting that woman. On the bus." 

Sherlock went still. Slowly, he turned to look at John. 

"It was her," John said. "Your sister. Eurus." 

Sherlock blinked, not quite comprehending. His brow furrowed. 

"A disguise," John said. "And one I should have—I was so ready to—I couldn't even _recognize_ her, Sherlock. The woman I thought was remarkable enough to betray my wife's trust for." 

"Disguises," Sherlock murmured, looking away. "Might explain why Mycroft seems unaware of her movements." 

"Sherlock," John said, because he wasn't a genius but he could recognize avoidance when he saw it. 

"You speak of betraying trust," Sherlock said. "I don't believe it was ever in Mary's nature to trust fully. Someone with her history would have developed very strong associations between trust and leverage, and the interactions you speak of—" 

"Sherlock," John said again, his voice breaking. He put his hands over his eyes. 

Sherlock fell silent. John could hear him breathing, light, nervous breaths. 

"I don't know what to say, John," Sherlock said. His voice had gone very quiet, helpless. "I don't know what to do. This isn't—"

"Your area, I know." 

Sherlock did not respond. 

John lifted his head, turned to look at him. Sherlock was rigid and nervous, perched on the edge of the bench like a bird ready to take flight. His eyes were very wide, gleaming in the gathering dark. 

John could not speak.

After a moment, Sherlock straightened his shoulders, looked away. When he spoke again, his voice was brusque, all business. "So. Eurus's interest in you goes back further than I thought. Without more data, I have no way of knowing exactly why she chose to position herself in your path." 

"She thought I had nice eyes," John said, bitter. He sniffed, hard, leaned back against the bench, folded his arms across his chest. 

Sherlock turned back towards him, his face inscrutable. "Somehow I doubt that was her primary motivation." 

John laughed, a little forced. "Could be." 

"Really couldn't." 

They shared smiles for a moment, strained around the edges. 

"Which isn't to say," Sherlock said, and hesitated. "That they aren't. Nice." 

"Oh," John said, surprised. He cleared his throat, looked down. "Um. Thanks." 

"Just. Balance of probability. Regarding her motives." 

"Right, yeah. Got that." 

Sherlock smiled at him. It did not quite reach his eyes. He took a deep breath. "The texting." 

John's chest went cold. He flinched, forced himself not to look away from Sherlock's inquisitive gaze. "Mm?" 

"Was there anything—out of the ordinary?" 

"Out of the ordinary how?" John asked, his voice a little too loud, a little too harsh. "Sudden shifts into third person? Dropping little hints about the East Wind? Offering to put a hole in my head?" 

"Anything," Sherlock said, apparently not deterred by his tone. 

"No," John said, sharp. "It was—it was flirting. Just flirting. Christ. You know." 

Sherlock raised his brows, said nothing. 

"Just—saucy little messages. Late at night. During my breaks at work. Nothing too—I wasn't actually—" John shifted, uncomfortable, looked away. He was not quite able to bear the weight of Sherlock's gaze. "She was funny. Seemed—um. Uncomplicated. It was nice to imagine that, for a little while." 

"I see." 

"Do you?" John lifted his head, frowned. 

"You still feel guilty." 

His eyes went, helplessly, to that line of pink skin just along Sherlock's brow. 

"Yes," he said.

"Mary was many things, John," Sherlock said, his voice low. "Stupid wasn't one of them." 

John huffed out a sharp, humourless laugh. "High praise, coming from you." 

"It is," Sherlock said. "And I think you already know what I'm going to tell you." 

"You think she knew." 

"Of course she knew. Her life depended on knowing things, on _noticing_ things." 

His skin had come over cold. He leaned forward, kept his arms folded protectively in front of him. Breathed out hard. "If she knew, then why didn't she say anything?" 

"I can't begin to speculate." 

"Oh, but you can speculate about everything else," John snapped. "Every other person under the bloody sun—their life is an open book to you. But not—not—" 

"John," Sherlock said. 

"You know, I don't actually want to talk about this," John said. "Why are we talking about this? It's not doing any good." 

"All right," Sherlock said. 

"We're supposed to be—well, I don't know, exactly what it is we're meant to be doing. Coming up with some sort of plan, yeah?" 

"We have a plan," Sherlock said. 

"What plan? Ask Mycroft? That's not a plan." 

Sherlock's lip quirked. "Most days I'd be all too happy to agree with you. But in this particular instance—" 

"He's clearly kept this information from you for a reason," John said. "I don't think he'll give it up without a fight."

"You underestimate my skills of persuasion." 

"No, you overestimate them," John said. He shook his head, smiling a little in spite of himself. "I lived with you, remember? I've seen your methods of persuasion. You don't persuade, you _annoy_ people into cooperating. And that's not going to work. Not this time." 

Sherlock looked somewhat taken aback. "I do not." 

"Oh, you do. You definitely do." John went on smiling down at the ground. "All of that—" he sawed his hand in the air. "—with the violin. And the pacing and the shouting. And the occasional shooting." 

Sherlock still looked affronted.

"Look," John said, softening a bit. "You didn't see him, that night I asked about—he wasn't just avoiding the subject. He was afraid. And you can't just _irritate_ someone into giving up their fears." 

"What would you suggest, then, since you seem to have all the answers?" Sherlock's voice, carefully bored, guarded. An easy ruse to see through, by now. 

"Don't go to Mycroft asking for help," John said. "Make him come to _you._ "

Sherlock's mouth curved up into a smile. "Scare him, you mean." 

"Mm. Yep. Scare him. Terrify him. Make him think he's got no other choice but to come clean." 

"You do, occasionally, have a good idea." 

"Right," John said with a forced little laugh, his face once more flushing up hot. "Well. I knew there had to be some reason you put up with me." 

There was a flicker of something on Sherlock's face, an oddly stricken expression. It smoothed away so quickly it might never have been there at all. 

"Mm," Sherlock agreed. "You have your uses." His voice was casual. Dismissive. He stood up from the bench. His coat flared out behind him. 

He went to the railing, drummed his ungloved hands against the metal. Looked out over the water. There was a stiff, forced quality to his movements. 

John stared at his back, troubled. He stood up. 

Sherlock turned around. Clapped his hands together. His fingers looked pale and vulnerable in the shadows. 

"No time to waste," he said. Something sparked in his haunted eyes.

"Sherlock," John said. 

Sherlock's smile faltered, just for a moment, and then he ploughed on, ignoring him. "When he's not busy starting wars, Mycroft prefers to spend Friday nights alone in his private theatre. He maintains a rather large collection of vintage noir films. The titles are obscure enough to allow him to feel more cultured than the average cinema-goer. All part of the appeal." 

"Private theatre," John said. He shook his head, scoffed. "Of course he'd have a bloody private theatre."

"We'll need to act quickly, of course. I'll—" 

"Sherlock," John said again, because Sherlock's voice was right but his face was all wrong. 

Sherlock stopped. Looked at him. 

"What is it?" John pressed, stepping closer. He dropped his voice. 

"Leave it," Sherlock said. His voice was strange, choked and unfamiliar. He turned away, stared back out over the water. 

John stared at him. 

"Sherlock," John said again. He reached out, touched his sleeve with a tentative hand. "Are you—" 

Sherlock whirled to face him. His lip curled up, a furious tight-mouthed sneer. "I said _leave it._ I can't—it's all very close to the surface. Right now. I am trying. But I can't—" he made a helpless gesture with his hands, those scraped and damaged hands, and let them drop to his sides. 

John looked at Sherlock. Thought about him saying _they would not survive the encounter._

They didn't say things like that to each other. Not out loud. 

They didn't say the important things out loud. 

Sherlock's eyes had been very wide, there in the wreckage of the therapist's office. His hands had been trembling and bloodied. 

" _You_ put up with _me,_ John. That's how this works," Sherlock's voice was hoarse. Resigned. "You put up with me. Not the other way around. After all that I've—after everything—after I've destroyed your family—" 

John breathed out hard, shook his head. He feared he might be sick. 

"No. Christ. No." He stepped up close, grasped at Sherlock's upper arms with shaking hands. "You—um. You _are_ my family. All right? I'm sorry that I've made you doubt that. I'm so fucking sorry. I wish I could take that back. There are so many things I wish I could do differently. So many things. I'm so—" 

Sherlock's lips were on his, clumsy and desperate and damp. Sherlock's hands were cupping his face, long fingers cold against his skin. 

John froze, stunned, his fingertips digging hard into Sherlock's upper arms. 

Sherlock jerked back. His eyes were wild. Horrified.

"John," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He shook his head. Shut his eyes. "Forgive me. I didn't intend—" 

"Don't," John said. He relaxed his hands with some effort, but did not let them drop. He could see Sherlock's pulse jumping against the thin skin of his neck. "Don't lie to me. Please. Not anymore." 

"Don't make me say it," Sherlock said. He did not open his eyes. 

John looked at the faint pink line over his eyebrow, that fresh healing skin that still bore his mark. 

He thought uncomfortably of Culverton Smith, of the recording that Lestrade had made him listen to. Of the choked, reluctant confessions the man had extracted from Sherlock. Those hoarse, desperate, _sad_ words, meant to be his last. 

"I'm not going to make you say anything you don't want to say," John said, feeling suddenly like crying. There was a sick, twisting feeling in his chest, a throbbing behind his eyes. It seemed as though it had been there forever, that feeling. 

Sherlock made a sound that might have been agreement or might have been dissent. It was difficult to say for certain. His eyes remained shut, his face a wretched study in defeated misery. 

John thought about all of the things he'd always wanted to say to Sherlock, all the things he'd choked back, had smothered, had strangled and kicked into submission. 

"Did it ever occur to you," he started, surprised at the steadiness of his own voice. "At any point. In that enormous brain of yours, did you ever think that—that maybe the reason this is so bloody difficult is because I'm in love with you too?" 

Sherlock jerked under his hands, sharp eyes snapping open.

"I don't want to be," John said. "Fuck. I've—I've _tried_ not to be. It would be easier. If I wasn't. But I—am. Have been for a long time. And I think not being—not being honest. About that. Maybe is what's gotten us here in the first place." 

Sherlock shook his head, opened his mouth to speak. His brow furrowed up. 

John pushed forward, kissed him. Swallowed whatever words he was trying to say. 

He was gentle. Cautious. Sherlock trembled under his hands. 

Sherlock made a noise in the back of his throat, a desperate choked sound, and sagged forward as if conceding defeat. One of his hands came up against John's face, fingers splaying across his cheek. His other hand scrabbled at the back of John's coat, tangling in the fabric. 

John let his hands drop from Sherlock's shoulders, wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist inside the warm cocoon of his coat instead, pulled him close. He was tall and angular, sharp hips and elbows. His heart thundered wildly against his ribs. 

There was salt in Sherlock's kisses. His lips and cheeks were damp.

John kissed him. Again and again and again. Like he'd always wanted to. He did not give himself a moment to catch his breath. 

He'd been so angry, for years. Angry at himself. Angry at Sherlock. Angry at Mary. Angry and hurt and _wanting_ and not knowing precisely what it was that he wanted, not able to put it into words.

Afraid to put it into words, because that would mean facing it head on. 

Sherlock kissed like a drowning man gasping for air. Like he thought he'd never have another chance. 

And John knew he should not encourage this, he shouldn't slip one hand up into Sherlock's wind-tousled hair and pull him even closer, he shouldn't angle himself with his back against the cold metal railing so that he could stop wasting valuable energy on the struggle to remain upright and instead focus on the soft inexpert press of Sherlock's lips against his own, the warm humid puffs of Sherlock's breath against his face, the tentative slide of Sherlock's tongue, the heat of Sherlock's skin through the thin material of his shirt where John's other hand had come to rest at the small of his back. 

He knew he should not encourage it, but he had stood stunned and blinking while a stranger with Sherlock's eyes had pointed a gun at him and fired, and he had _lived,_ somehow he had lived, he had lived to open his eyes once more and it had been Sherlock's frightened face waiting for him when he did. Sherlock who always came for him, no matter what. In spite of everything.

The day would come, soon enough, where one or the other of them would not open their eyes. Where there would be no last-minute intervention, no miraculous rescue, no triumphant return. He'd held his wife in his arms as the life drained from her body, and he'd been too numb and horrorstruck and _angry,_ sick with guilt over his own behaviour and furious with her for leaving and for coming back and for dying, and irrationally, wildly angry at Sherlock most of all, Sherlock who had seemed so _certain,_ Sherlock who had made a vow and had, inexplicably, failed to uphold it. 

"I love you, you bastard," he said against Sherlock's lips. He did not know if Sherlock could hear him, could feel the words his mouth was forming. There were fine tremors running through Sherlock's body, an adrenaline spike, most likely. His hands were very cold. "I love you, and I'm sick of hating you for it." 

Sherlock nodded, his head bobbing rapidly, and John supposed he'd been heard. 

He pulled back, reluctant, and looked up at Sherlock there in the weak moonlight. Thought about what they'd been through. Thought about what was yet to come. 

_Please, God,_ he thought. _Let us live._

He reached up and touched Sherlock's cheek, drew his thumb gently along the paper-thin skin beneath his eye. Breathed. 

Then he squared his shoulders, forced a smile. "Let's go scare your brother." 

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. He blinked down at John. Silence stretched between them. Then his lips twitched up into a smile, small but genuine. "You do, occasionally, have a good idea." 

They stared at each other for a moment longer. 

Sherlock's arm bumped against John's as they made their way back up towards the street. John did not pull away.


End file.
